


When a Man Eats a Snow Storm

by theplotholesmademedoit



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Here be feels, Hurt/Comfort, It's good I promise, It's part of something I never finished, It's the angst Dean never gets to properly have, Mostly hurt, Not Really Character Death, sammy whumpage, vaguely slashy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 00:49:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theplotholesmademedoit/pseuds/theplotholesmademedoit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The metal was cold.<br/>Not just in the way palms freeze when they skate along car doors in the dead of winter. Not the familiar burn of frosted trigger buckling beneath his figures with a fired shot.<br/>(Essentially well deserved angst for the elder Winchester, set early season 8, s7 spoilers beware) Unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine feel free to point them out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When a Man Eats a Snow Storm

**Author's Note:**

> So fellow nerds, this is my first fic on AO3 and my first fic in a long time (since I was 12 to be exact, that would be 5 years ago, I've been lurking in the internet shadows for a long time my friends. Gollum style) Anywho I really hope you read this, and I hold greater hopes for you actually enjoying it. No beta, so feel free to point out mistakes if you see them!

          The metal was cold.  
          Not in the way palms freeze when they skate along car doors in the dead of winter. Not the familiar burn of frosted trigger buckling beneath his figures with a fired shot.  
          It’s the same gun all right, but the metal this time is the barrel sliding over the warmness of his wet gums with swipes of a stony, searing, iron cold. He drags it along his inner check, scrapes it against the roof of his mouth and turns it restlessly on his sloshing tongue. It leaves a trail of stolen heat.  
          The gun isn’t really that cold. It’s in his head he knows, but somehow he feels like it’s giving him frostbite. He almost laughs. Like sucking the dick of a yeti.  
          He pops the gun out of his mouth, twisting it in scarred hands. It’s stupid really. Stupidly fucking ironic. Dean Winchester, the survivor, Dean Winchester who cheated death more times than he cares to count, who fought fought fought to live again, kissing the barrel of a gun he’s aiming at the back of his own head. He does laugh this time.  
          The inside of the gun’s not cold. It’s dormant; one tap of the trigger and its innards would explode. The gears would clash, in a frenzied grind of nuts and bolts. The force would send screaming sparks through the machine, erasing the ice of the shell and leaving in its place dangerous warmth. Too many times fired and it gets too hot, far too hot to be contained.                    When that happens the gears crumple and someone gets burned.  
         He wouldn't be around for that. This particularly gun had seen too much, fired a few shots too many, and it was one bullet away from being useless. Seemed fitting it would end its career just after he did.  
         A coward’s way out. He’d been a coward in hell, he’d been a coward before, it hardly made a difference now. He wondered idly if he’d end up back there. They say suicide is a sin, and if that’s not enough to land him a second round in the pit, all the other shit he’s done will probably cover it.  
        What is Sammy going to think when he finds his body? He toyed with the image his brother’s puppy dog eyes blown wide as they captured the scene of his own curled limbs, the blood clumped on the carpet where it and his life had long since pooled from top of his head, the grey dusting on his own dead face.  
        Then he remembers.  
        Sammy doesn’t give a fuck anymore. Dean only has two people left that he loves. Only two good reasons to keep fighting.  
Cas was… Cas was gone. He wouldn’t - he couldn’t think about that.  
          Sammy didn’t look for him, diving into picket fences and farmers markets while Dean played tug of war for his life in a land of monsters. Sam had no idea where Dean was, whether he was dead, alive or somewhere in-between. And he didn’t even care. One more ingredient to bubble in the darkness he imprisoned in his gut, one more demon to haunt-  
          Stop it Dean stop it. If he reflects on it, all that buried pain will burst to the surface like fast-forward toxic ooze. He’ll explode too soon, before he’s dead and won’t be around to feel it. He can sense it starting, is aware of the sadness rusting the back of his throat.  
           His hands definitely do not shake as he again raises the gun to his mouth. The gun does not quiver in his grip as it slides between parted lips. He absolutely doesn’t let it rest on his tongue for a minute, tasting the cold.  
            He clicks the safety.

**Author's Note:**

> Too much verbiage? You decided :) If I get enough feedback I'll write the full story which involves some serious Destiel Hurt/Comfort, more Sammy whumpage, and Protective!Cas and a return of Osiris for a twist. There's an actual plot. With an ending. Thank you!  
> -Sophia  
> Also I don't think guns really fall apart when they get old, but let's pretend for metaphor's sake. I'm fanfiction nut, not a gun nut.


End file.
